Before the Mask
by Legendary Swordsman
Summary: The college years always seem to pass by too quickly when it is filled with work. It is as if there is never enough time for young Viktor. Time slips quickly through his fingers, just like his sanity. One-shot drabble.


"No. No. No!" a hand sweeps the pile of notes aside. Nothing made sense in this clutter of numbers. Pressing a black pen to his lips, he bites down and gnaws on the thin cylinder and scratches his head. Another road block, another limitation. There had to be another way to solve this problem, but at the moment he could not figure out what.

His left hand reaches for the coffee mug. Spitting out the writing utensil in favor of more caffeine, he downs half of the cup in one swig. It has been cold for a while now and so has the temperature in the room. With a loud sigh he presses his forehead to the cleared space before him, avoiding the thick coffee stain on the desk. Sleeveless arms curl around his head and he sinks in his chair. His fingers curl into his black mops and he glances lazily at the scrawled formulas on a notepad to his left. Lips pursed, he shifts in his seat and closes his eyes to rest. He could feel a headache beginning to swell in his temples; he could feel the light pulse. Irritation fills him and he decides maybe it is a good time to retire now; he wasn't making any progress. His eyes then glance at the small picture tacked to the wall. His fingers hook beneath the delicate film and a tired smile plays across his lips. Ladders and scaffolds. Steel. Tools.

He thumbs the shiny surface, feeling rejuvenated. The man rises again to work.

It was morning anyways. No time to sleep.

* * *

The steps squeak as he climbs the rails. Progress, one rung after the next. At the top, he licks his lips anxiously. He feels like a young boy again with knots twisting in his gut. He raises a cloth to the glossy surface of a lamp. His hot breath on the glass, he polishes the glass and rubs the round metal that encases it. A warped grin appears on the golden surface and he slides down off the scaffold.

A warm feeling touches his cheeks and fills his fingers. He feels something spreading through him, and his grin only widens. He looks up at the giant figure now that his toes are touching the floor. He stands there for a few minutes. His palm lifts and presses against the cool steel. There. Again. His fingertips tingle.

He pulls away and turns off the lights. He locks the windows and the door, but before he goes he turns once to glance over his shoulder.

'Good night.' he breathes.

* * *

The lab is bustling with energy. This chatter and excitement, it has consumed him, too. His palms were moist and he rocks on the balls of his feet. He hums and glances at the professor. He looks at the crowd of scientists. Then he turns to the machine. His eyes are open wide and he breathes deeply, trying to soak in this unforgettable moment. His hand shakes as he prepares the switch. He smiles and thrusts his finger on the button. Steam hisses like a kettle pot hot on the stove and fills the air. Electricity crackles freely. His stomach turns. His knees go weak. He could see all of the energy in the room ignite, as if it powered the machine before him. The steam turns into wisps of smoke suddenly. He gasps. Everyone gasps.

A billowing pillar of black rises to the ceiling and disappointment sinks his heart. His mouth hangs open and he rushes to fan away the smog that began to hover around the scaffold. He inhales the dirty stench that pollutes his lungs, soils his hopes.

He coughs and presses his forehead against the machine, and it's cold.

* * *

His hand scours the desk of its contents. Papers, books, and pens fly into the air, swept up by the storm. They all rain onto the floor like heavy hail. Palms slam the desk, a fist pounds the coffee stain. The floorboards creak and the chair is overturned. The desk is now overturned. The picture is torn off its tack and is lost somewhere in the hurricane.

A wild howl fills the room and water spills. Hot. Streaming. Heaving and labored breathing, nails break into the wall and rake its surface. Dirt and loose wood chips collect under his fingers. Splinters, too. He throws himself onto the floor amidst the destruction. Hours after hours. There was nothing left to destroy. He raises his hands to his wild, bulged eyes. He brings them closer to this jittery creature. It was a mistake and it bites at the hands. Teeth sink into flesh and grinds the skin caught. It lets go leaving prints and saliva. It spits out the foul taste and cries out.

The hands press into each other. Ones that had worked together seamlessly now tear at the callouses, at the palms. Nails press into the flat, hardened, naked surface of the palms. They leave only indents. Thumbs desperately wrap around to the back, reaching the chafed knuckles. The bony ridges are skinned and painted in red spots just beneath the thin layer. Lips curl back and the teeth are bared again. A hiss escapes the calcium prison and then another beastly scream. The nails dig into the arms, pierce the delicate skin that covered them. He draws blood and skin and pain. He pulls and scratches. Pull and scratch. And scream.

The nails rake the skin like they had raked the wooden wall. They drag deliberately and painfully. He raises his hands to his wild, bulged eyes. He brings them to his face. He covers himself in blood, painting his cheeks. He sobs into his hands. He sobs as they are thirsty again.

The night goes on. The day goes on. The weeks.

And he sits.

The pain is real. This is reality. And he realizes what a terrible reality it is.

Behind the planks that nailed shut the doors and the windows, an inhuman, monstrous cry breaks free.

It consumes him.


End file.
